A few days and nights in Malpaís and Santa Teresa. I saw the pelicans, the threat of falling coconuts, I saw coatis, whales, iguanas, herons and some fish - blue, miniscule and phosphorescent - swimming in pools that form among the rocks at low-tide. Also the seagulls who followed us onto the deck of the ferry so that we'd feed them highly-processed food. I saw friends, I saw friends' children. I saw friends and friends' children light a bonfire in the night and fulfill this ritual that's been with us for who knows how long. I saw the ocean each night before I'd fall asleep, and I saw it each morning when I'd wake up. I saw a multi-colored comet still against the clean sky, I saw the invisible string that seemed to sustain it reach almost to my own hands. I saw hermit crabs of all sizes surrounding me while I pissed on the sand. I saw, in the bottom of the backpack, the spine of a Dos Passos novel I haven't even gotten around to opening. I saw objects the sea deposits on the shore: a stone in the shape of a cassette tape, a branch in the shape of a lantern, a beer can in the shape of a beer can. One afternoon I closed my eyes and saw the blur of so many past trips, imagining future visits to this very coast. This is how it is. Life can be reduced to a short list.

Translation: Julia Guez & Samantha Zighelboim